Not a good day on the ol’ training miles.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe the way I’ve been feeling these past few days, weeks, months, etc.
It’s like a dark force is reaching into my soul, a la Peter Jackson’s The Frighteners (1996), and squeezing, like I were a human Panic Pete stress doll. Ya know the Panic Pete? AKA Big Out Bob? AKA Martian Doll? He’s this plastic blob toy that has just enough give in him that if you squeeze him, his eyeballs and ears and nose stick out. Don’t believe me? Here’s a sonorous British fellow who will break it down for you:
And here’s the Soul Collector in action:
Anyway, I had hoped a run might alleviate some of that feeling for a brief period at least. Instead, I was just a slow, slower, and slowest paced turtle. Ya know what the mainstream media has told us all these years, that slow and steady wins the race, that the tortoise beats the hare? My empirical evidence does not seem to be bearing that out.
On the plus side, I’m not dead yet. I think I’ll go for a walk.